


John Watson, Christmas elf - Part 1

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Unforgivable Things universe miscellany [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Family Feels, Gen, Not S4 Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: The last twelve months had taken so much of what John loved in the world and he felt a deep, visceral need to celebrate what he had left. With all the bruising hits his friendship with Sherlock had taken in that time, John thought maybe his best friend needed to send off the year with a bang, too. The year since last Christmas Day had been the worst of John's life, and he wanted to dispatch it to Hell with booze and friends and the closest thing to good cheer he could muster.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While this story has been tagged as part of my Unforgivable Things series universe, it isn't necessary to have knowledge of those stories before reading this one.

Christmas was coming, and no matter how desperate John was to ignore it, he knew he had to face facts: it was going to be bloody awful unless he did something to ensure it wasn't. He'd spent the last month dreading the coming holiday season. What was supposed to have been a joyous occasion—his and Mary's first Christmas with their child—was going to be a dour misery if he didn't find a way to take his mind off his grief and the crowding memories that had become more importunate as the end of the year approached. 

One drunken weekend at Greg's in the spring, shortly after the accident that had taken his wife and child from him, had taught him booze wasn't really an effective option for coping. A lifetime fighting off his family's legacy of alcoholism wasn't getting thrown out the window, no matter how miserable he was; fifteen years ago he'd decided to choose life over the bottle and despite all the challenges he'd had to that resolve over the years, he hadn't given in yet. He would get through this.

The last twelve months had taken so much of what John loved in the world and he felt a deep, visceral need to celebrate what he had left. With all the bruising hits his friendship with Sherlock had taken in that time, John thought maybe his best friend needed to send off the year with a bang, too. The year since last Christmas Day had been the worst of John's life, and he wanted to dispatch it to Hell with booze and friends and the closest thing to good cheer he could muster. 

~ + ~

John placed the pints on the table and dropped onto the adjacent chair with a sigh. After they’d each taken a long, well-deserved drink, he looked across the table. “What’re you doing Christmas?”

The grimace that appeared on Greg’s face was quickly replaced by an apologetic half-grin. “Working.”

John grimaced back in sympathy. “That’s bollocks. You’re a Chief Inspector; why’re you working a holiday?”

“Someone has to be in charge in case the world blows up.”

“And it has to be you?”

“Lowest on the seniority list.” Greg spun the glass in front of him, his hands as morose as his face. “And I might as well; all the rest of them have families.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Still pretty shit for you, though.” John turned away to relieve his friend’s obvious discomfort, and pretended to pay attention to the television over the bar.

For the next ten minutes or so, as the usual comfortable quiet between them reasserted itself, John wondered for about the fiftieth time why someone as decent as Greg Lestrade was still single. Every woman John knew complained there were no available men worth having left in London, but no one had snatched up Greg in the three years since the final breakdown of his marriage. To John, that made no sense. But then, life was hardly fair, and if he hadn’t already known that before, the last year certainly would have taught him that lesson.

John glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eye, then looked away as soon as Greg noticed him doing so. He whiled away the next five minutes thinking of every unattached woman he knew who was about the right age and who he thought might be good enough for his friend: Sophie (nice, not much in the looks department, and probably too young), Doris (too many cats and Greg was allergic), Louise (no interests in common, unless Greg harboured a secret interest in Civil War re-enacting), and Cath (Mary’s best friend, which on its own would be extremely weird, but he hadn't seen her since the funeral and she appeared to only date younger men). Then there was Molly Hooper, and John gave that some thought. But Greg had known Molly even longer than Sherlock had, and never demonstrated an ounce of interest in her other than a quasi-paternal concern about her long-standing crush on Sherlock. This match-making business was more difficult than it looked, now he’d turned his mind to it.

By the time he got to the bottom of his list, John put the notion aside. Playing cupid for friends was a risky game at the best of times.

“What are you up to?” Greg asked during a break in play.

“Trying to put something together for Christmas Eve again. You’re invited, of course. If you can come.”

“I’ll be on call at midnight, so I’ll have to be careful with the booze. But yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Bring someone, if you like.”

Greg almost choked on the dregs of his beer. “As if I’ve got time to date.”

Regardless, as Greg spoke, John could see the darkness that had been lurking behind his eyes lighten a bit. By halftime, at least two of the frown lines on his forehead had smoothed out under the ministrations of mild banter and fellowship. John himself felt more relaxed than he had since—well, before Magnussen and the accident and all the fall-out after, now he thought of it. Not since Afghanistan had John been so looking forward to putting a year behind him.

With everything that had happened since the previous Christmas, Greg was one of the people that had fallen off his radar, and John resolved to change that. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to organise some sort of get-together with their friends over the holidays. By the looks of things, it had been a tough year for Greg, too, but by the end of the evening, as they donned their coats and knocked back the ends of their last pints, John began to see welcome hints of the Lestrade of old.

~ + ~

Once he'd elicited promises from Greg, Molly and Mike that they would be coming to Baker Street on Christmas Eve, John turned his attention to the logistics of trying to host a party in the home of the country's second most-observant man, without him figuring out beforehand. He was definitely going to need help.

The next morning, he knocked on the door of 221a, and after allowing Mrs Hudson to push tea, biscuits, and a slice of her fantastic fruitcake on him, John managed to steer the conversation to Christmas Eve. Just as he'd expected, she was delighted at the prospect of a party; as a bonus, the idea of organising and hosting it right under Sherlock's nose brought back the long-missing twinkle to her eyes. Behind her hands clasped in front of her mouth, she made a happy chirruping little sound that gladdened John's heart enormously. He couldn't understand why he hadn't realised that all the people he cared about might need this party as much as he did. But of course they did; they'd loved Mary and Grace, too.

In the end, John had to rein in some of Mrs Hudson's wilder ideas, especially regarding the scale of the party. After her excited, rapid-fire recitation of all the treats she'd make, he had to remind her their social circle was small, and not composed of people with the appetites of Premiership rugby players. John had visions of leftovers until Easter.

“Oh, John. It's a lovely idea. Send the year out with a bash.”

“Or a bang. Kick it to hell, I was thinking.”

She didn't reply other than to reach across the table and lay her tiny, bird-like hand over his and give it a quick squeeze. “How are you going to keep it from Sherlock? He'd never agree if he found out.”

“Yeah, that. You're right, he'd just disappear—”

“A case.” She said with a nod of finality.

John was doubtful, but decided to play along in case a better idea came to mind. “Maybe I can get Greg to help with that. I'll give him a call, see if he has any ideas.”

The gleam that presaged a whirlwind of activity appeared in her eyes. She paused, likely distracted by thought of logistics and schemes. “I'll have to do something about that bathroom.”

“Leave the bathroom to me. It'll be less suspicious if I clean up the flat.” John thought the sight of housework being done in the flat might be enough on its own to drive Sherlock away for hours.

She gave him a sceptical look and John had to acknowledge she was probably right to do so. He was only marginally better than Sherlock at cleaning up after himself.

“I'll complain a lot for two or three days before. It'll be less suspicious. You never know; I might be able to guilt him into cleaning up himself.” They stared across the table at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing.

Once she'd dried her eyes, Mrs Hudson nodded. “All right, then. We can keep all the food and drink down here until we need them. And if you find a way to get him out of the house, we can decorate.”

They both paused, lost in their individual thoughts, until John became aware of a rising tide of anxiety on his landlady's face. “What?”

“Are you going to ask Mycroft?”

“God, that would put an end to it all, wouldn't it? Sherlock'd be out of here like a shot. Or worse, they'd just go at each other like a couple of Oscar Wilde characters. No thanks.”

Mrs Hudson's dubious expression didn't shift, and John knew she wanted to disagree with him about at least one of those points.

“Do you think I should invite him? I mean, he wouldn't come, so why bother?”

~ + ~

John really didn't want to see Mycroft, but he knew he had to bite the bullet for Sherlock's sake. While Sherlock and Mycroft had apparently reached some sort of truce about the events leading up to Mary and Grace's deaths, the brothers hadn't seen each other since their meeting at the Diogenes that John hadn't been invited to. Mycroft's absence from their lives for the last seven months had sent Sherlock slowly and inexorably off-kilter, and John knew that encouraging a proper reconciliation between them was just another sacrifice he was going to have to make for his best friend.

“Christmas Eve,” Mycroft muttered almost to himself, as if John had asked him to define the meaning of life in ten words or less.

For three days, John had flip-flopped over whether or not he'd invite Mycroft to the party. On one hand, he couldn't believe he was even contemplating it; Mycroft Holmes was the walking, talking personification of fun-killer. But if Sherlock and his brother were ever to repair their relationship, someone was going to have to get them in a room together, and it seemed that that unpleasant duty had fallen to John. In the end, Mycroft was the last person he got around to asking. The voice of reason in the back of his mind berated John for worrying about it; the chance Mycroft would agree to come was minuscule, but at least John would get a little credit for reaching out across the contentious void that had developed over the years between Sherlock's circle and his brother.

And now, to his trepidation, Mycroft seemed to be seriously thinking about accepting. Sherlock was going to have a _fit_ if his brother turned up, but John could hardly rescind the invitation now. While he would be the first to acknowledge he had no understanding of what went on in Mycroft Holmes' head, John could tell he was wondering what underhanded motive John might have for inviting him. All things considered, he'd probably deduced fifteen underhanded motives John wouldn't have been able to come up with even if he'd wanted to.

John knew that Sherlock's brother spent Christmas alone whenever he was able to avoid family entanglements. The preference of both brothers seemed to be refusing to acknowledge the day's existence beyond the sun's traverse across the sky, so John wondered at Mycroft's motive for taking the invitation seriously.

“Sherlock will be there?” Mycroft eventually asked.

“It'll be in his flat, so yeah.” _Though, probably not if he knows you're coming._ John could tell from Mycroft's penetrating expression that he'd probably read those exact words as they came to John's mind.

“Does Sherlock know he's to be hosting this event?”

John couldn't tell if the almost-twinkle in Mycroft's eye was what passed for humour, or was as a result of Mycroft imagining Sherlock's tantrum when John told him. 

“I'll tell him.” _Eventually. When the first people show up._

“And will you tell him that I have been invited?”

“Not unless you're going to come. Are you?”

To John's surprise, Mycroft seemed—flummoxed was the word that came to mind and it was almost unimaginable that that word could ever apply to Mycroft Holmes, the most un-flummoxable person John had ever met. “I'm not fond of the idea of blind-siding Sherlock. The result would be uncomfortable for everyone.”

Now John could tell that Mycroft actually wanted to attend. It made sense in a way; he'd had almost no contact with his brother since the events of late winter-early spring that none of them mentioned anymore, no matter how present they still were for all of them. Perhaps Mycroft just wanted to see for himself how Sherlock was doing in his “becoming a reasonably sober, responsible adult” programme. Or maybe Sherlock had been right all along and Mycroft was just lonely.

“You can bring someone, if you like. I don't know—” John stumbled into a well of awkward silence as Mycroft's gaze took on its more usual x-ray aspect. “Or not.” 

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and leant back in his chair. An expression settled on his face that simultaneously communicated little whilst giving the impression of whirling cogs and gears. John had no idea what it meant, but had enough experience with the brothers to recognise the formative phase of A Cunning Plan.

~ + ~

John and Mrs Hudson spent the afternoon of Christmas Eve cleaning up, then decorating, 221b. Lestrade had sacrificed his afternoon off and gone into the office, calling Sherlock in on the pretense of wanting his opinion on a cold case.

As the time of the party neared, and Sherlock still hadn't returned home, John began to worry that perhaps he had figured out what was going on and decided to spend the evening away at one of his myriad boltholes. And if he did, John had already decided he had no intention of chasing Sherlock down. The party was going on, regardless.

Just before seven, as John was about to ferry the last of the food upstairs from Mrs Hudson's kitchen, the front door opened and Sherlock strode in.

“Hi. How was Greg?”

“Fine.” Sherlock took in the decorations as he drew off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat.

“Hello, dear. You're back just in time,” Mrs Hudson said as she ducked her head down around the turn of the stairs.

Sherlock seemed at that moment to come to a realisation. Aghast, he spun around to face John. “What have you done?”

“Uh, tried to have a happy Christmas. Maybe.”

“What?”

The doorbell rang in a peremptory manner; John could feel the telling blend of impatience and hesitation radiating through the wall. “I'll leave you to get that, then,” John replied with an impish grin. Leaving Sherlock to fume at the door, John scampered up the stairs to help Mrs Hudson finish laying out the nibbles.

“Oh, for God's sake, what are _you_ doing here?” wafted up the staircase a few seconds later and John shared a laugh with Mrs Hudson. It looked as though the evening was off to a flying start.

_...to be continued (in eight days)_

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8984002).


End file.
